Dismantle, Repair
by MomentarySetback
Summary: Very loosely based on spoilers for 8x02 - yes, the season that hasn't started yet. I know I'm crazy. Major SPOILER WARNING for Season 8! This is as specific as I can be: Calleigh reacts to something Eric did and confronts him about it.


Why yes, I _am_ aware that Season 8 has not started, but I read a few spoilers and my mind went running with this idea. Before I knew it I had a clear-cut fanfic idea for what happened and why and this came about. I need to reiterate that there are _major_ **_MAJOR_** spoilers for season eight in here. So if you don't want to know, then don't read!

I also have to warn you that I didn't read all the spoilers for 8x02. I read a few things and then my mind went off with this idea of its own accord. And keep in mind this is not how I expect or want 8x02 to go; it was simply an idea that my brain would not let go of. : ) I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

She needed space.

They both did, and understandably so after the emotional turmoil that had led up to and encompassed his injury and subsequent surgery.

She had questioned her trust in him. No explanation or justification would settle the uneasiness that formed in the pit of her stomach every single time she thought back to that moment. She'd taken shelter behind the door of the hummer, aimed, and fired at the oncoming car fleeing the scene. In a flash it swerved right, and everything moved in slow motion save for the beating of her heart as she recognized Eric in the driver's seat. In that moment she had questioned him. Questioned herself for trusting him, for letting him into heart and her bed and her mind. In that moment she locked up during a shootout for the first time ever. She had left herself open and vulnerable, and she had ceased to back up her team for an extended period of time. It may have only been a moment, but that was certainly long enough for a bullet to pass through the barrel of a gun with a loud crack and lodge its way into someone's chest.

After that realization she'd suddenly understood the 'no fraternization' rule. They had been nothing but professional for months. They never let their relationship affect their work and neither had any intention of doing so. But they hadn't been able to anticipate the chain of events that spiraled out of their control. Eric hadn't expected his father to be in so deep; he hadn't expect to get _himself_ in so deep. He hadn't expected a secret meeting to end up in a shootout, and he certainly hadn't expected Calleigh to be on the scene.

And for Calleigh? Well, Eric was definitely the last person she'd expected to catch sight of fleeing the scene, dodging dozens of bullets.

It had affected her, more than she cared to admit. Suddenly, for the first time ever, IAB's rules made sense. Not dating Eric made sense. Dating Eric had caused to her ignore nearly fifteen years of training. Feelings trump protocol. Love trumps logic.

She needed space – a lot of it, actually – and time.

But that didn't explain why she was suddenly merging into the right lane and swinging right at the next stoplight instead of left. And it didn't explain why she was speeding down the causeway a moment later, emotions raging and heart pounding. Or why she was pulling into his driveway ten minutes later.

Her head was throbbing in rhythm with her heart, a lasting effect of the grueling, emotional day she'd endured…or maybe, she admitted for a split second, from the blow to her head she'd suffered.

With the chime of a doorbell she was in his sights, looking small and far away through the eyehole of his door, her arms crossed tightly and her head cast downward. He froze, surprised to see her there, and slowly gained the ability to pull the door open.

Her eyes immediately locked with his like she was zeroing in on a target or engaging a suspect. Arms still crossed, she didn't even try to reach for the storm door to come inside.

"You could've called me."

"Calleigh," he began cautiously, trying to ease the fire in her eyes. He had never seen her so affected. He was also distracted by her unusually tattered appearance. The sweater or suit jacket she'd been wearing over her top was long gone, leaving her in just a light yellow tank that had drops and spatters of blood. The more pressing issue, though, was the gaping cut on one side of her forehead that had a black and purple bruise blossoming from it. He was stuck by the need to make sure she was okay.

"No, don't," she insisted, operating under an uncharacteristic rush of emotions. "I know that we both need a break and I _know_ that this is hard, but a hostage situation goes down at the crime lab and you call _Natalia_?"

She'd finally gotten her bearings enough to reach for the door and as she did he caught sight of a matching bruise on her elbow, and another on the back of her hand. He immediately wondered if anything was broken, if any paramedics had checked her out. She was strong and could hold her own, but now, as he studied the angry dark purple bruises on her hand, he could think of nothing but how he used to glide his fingertips over her hands, marveling at how small and lithe she was.

"Calleigh," he tried again, thankful when she didn't immediately cut him off. "Are you okay?" he asked with a certain softness.

"I'm fine." Seeming unaware of or merely unconcerned with her injuries, she shrugged off his stare and brushed through his foyer. His house felt different now, less welcoming. She remained in the foyer.

"You can't even call me during an emergency now?" she asked, anger ebbing into hurt. "Is that what we've come to?"

"Maybe," he let out disappointedly, being completely honest. He wasn't sure what they'd come to or what they were anymore. She'd asked for space; if he was being truthful, he needed space, too, but he hadn't expected her to be so adamant, so distant. She had this ability to fall right back into work, walking around with a confident air as though nothing had happened at all. A part of him wondered if this was just some excuse for her to push him away so she could go back to keeping everyone in her life at a distance. And that made him angry. "I don't know."

"Is that what you want?" she asked, arms crossed back over her chest now.

"Is that what _you_ want?"

The question made her head swim. Her heart screamed _no_, but the fact that he'd called someone else during an emergency hurt. If they were as close as she really thought they were, he would've known that a life or death matter ranked far, far above their relationship problems. It made her question their bond again, made her question _him_ again.

The rapid-fire thoughts were too much on her already tired mind, and that was without physical pain thrown into the equation. Her head was already aching and now a sudden, sharp pain was piercing through the top of her head. She clamped her eyes shut, furrowed her brows in pain, and pinched the bridge of her nose. The movement reopened her wound and a stream of blood slowly trickled down her temple.

"You're bleeding…" His voice had gone soft, concerned, and he stepped toward her. Stopping his hands moments before he touched her, his hands hovered over her skin just inches from her shoulders. Her breathing hitched, anticipating the contact, but in one quick movement he was gone. He returned with a towel and pressed it to her forehead, both avoiding the other's eyes. Then, when she least expected the contact, his hand circled her left arm – her good one – and he led her upstairs wordlessly.

Suddenly, everything had changed.

In the bright white light of his bathroom he gripped her hips lightly to position her beside the sink. She surprisingly let him, too caught up in the warmth inhabiting her body at his touch and too in awe of his coddling.

"You got checked out at the scene, right?" he asked, examining the wound before applying pressure with the cloth in hopes of stopping the bleeding again.

"Yeah, I'm okay," she assured. "It's just superficial." Her voice was softer now, much softer, and he felt her eyes on his every movement. Lifting the cloth, he checked to see if the bleeding had stopped yet and took the opportunity to examine the wound more. It looked bad; he didn't quite believe her when she said she was okay.

"Do I even want to know why there's bruising with this?" he asked, and he was completely serious but the corners of her lips curved upward slightly. Sadness clung to her eyes, but she was smiling at his over-protectiveness.

"No," she responded honestly. The softness in his eyes was too much so she looked down, focusing on her toes. If Eric knew she'd been roughed up by a couple of guys with guns, he would likely be at MDPD in ten minutes earning himself a charge for police brutality.

Out of habit, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips inadvertently brushing her cheek and the shell of her ear. That simple gesture, that touch, had her body buzzing, coming alive after a sort of emotional hibernation.

She was watching his very move again as he set the cloth down and grabbed several bottles from his cabinet. When he turned she noticed his healing incision site at the back of his head and a lump formed in her throat. She swallowed hard, trying not to relive the hospital ordeal as she slid up onto the counter.

He cleaned the cut with something that stung like hell and remedied it with a cool cream that made the sting disappear.

"Better?" he asked, hands lingering on her skin long after they needed to.

"Yeah," she said, meeting his eyes. "Thank you." His hand cradled her face still, thumb caressing her cheek as his eyes took in her, them, everything…

"Eric…"

Her voice – soft and with the perfect amount of Southern lilt – drew his eyes to hers. They were so close to giving in. Suddenly taking a break from their relationship seemed utterly impossible. Some unstoppable force kept his hands on her when she was near, and kept him longing for her when she wasn't. He couldn't stay away. Never had been able to, really. It was like gravity; he couldn't escape it.

"I called to ask about you." The words tumbled from his lips without reserve before he could stop them.

She knew that, on some level. Natalia said he called to make sure everyone was okay, which she'd accurately took to mean he needed to know if _Calleigh_ was okay. Eventually, he'd asked Natalia directly though. It affected Calleigh, made her heart burn and ache for him, but then the anger over him not calling _her_ settled in her chest.

"And the best person to ask about me was Natalia?"

A frustrated sigh escaped him, his thumb caressing her cheek with just a slightly harder touch before he pulled away. How could he explain to her that his gut reaction had been to speed down to the crime lab, demand to know where she was, and deal not-so-justly with whoever had put her in danger? But he couldn't drive while on his post-operation medications, and he feared that calling her would cross some unspoken boundary line the word "break" had drawn. It was also hard to hear her voice, to see her and not be able to do or say any of the things he wanted to.

"I just didn't think it'd be a good idea to call you," he admitted, beginning to pace the bathroom. He wanted to tell her how his fingers had trembled, hovering over the phone as he fought to keep them from dialing her number. "And honestly? I didn't think you'd want me to."

Maybe they had come to this. If he felt that pushed away by her, that distanced, then maybe this wasn't right anymore.

"I wanted you to," she admitted, her voice shaken up by the tears that welled in her eyes.

He stilled at her words, turning to find her eyes open and wonderfully vulnerable in a way he'd never seen. Unable to resist the need to comfort her, he moved closer, standing between her knees and placing his hands on her sides. "I didn't know what to think," he told her, shaking his head and then focusing on her watery green eyes. "I _love_ you, Calleigh. I can't just take a break from that. But you seemed just fine with taking this space, so I didn't know if you'd want me to call and check up on you. You've been so closed off lately."

"Because it _hurts_," Calleigh said through gritted teeth. Her honesty surprised him, as did the tears now steaming down her cheeks. It took something truly tragic to rock her composure – a death or a traumatic event. He knew that relationships had never rocked her with such magnitude. "I trust you, Eric, you know that…but in that moment I didn't," she admitted, struggling to keep the composure to speak. "I don't know what to do with that, so yeah, I need some time, but this isn't easy for me. I shut down and keep my distance because…" She stopped, taking in a shaky breath as tears cascaded down her cheeks. He caught them with the pads of his thumbs, brushing the dampness away and focusing his eyes on hers. "Because it hurts too much to see you and let myself feel everything I know I'm going to feel and not be able to do anything about it."

He knew that feeling too well; he just lacked the ability to shut his emotions off like she could.

"Who says we can't do anything about it?" he asked. The break was _their_ idea and they should control it as they pleased.

"IAB," she began, eyes widening emphatically. "This…trust issue between us now, the fact that I _shot_ at you, brain surgery," she continued, her fingers brushing over his shaved hair near his scar. _Scars_ now, reminded herself. He'd had brain surgery _twice _now. "There is just so much going on and throughout it all IAB's breathing down our necks." Her voice was breaking under the strain of so much emotion and she shook her head slowly, biting her lip as she met his eyes. "I don't know where we go from here," she whispered.

She studied his face, noting the tiredness in his features, the sadness in his eyes. Sliding her fingertips along his skin until she felt the stubble at his jaw, she lay her palm against his cheek.

"We take whatever time apart we need," Eric answered, leaning into her touch. "I've been thinking…and when I come back, if there's any pressure on us at all, I'm going to request a transfer to the night shift."

Her eyes both softened and questioned him as she took in his words. When he'd mentioned it two years ago she'd been involved with someone else and it had been sort of backhandedly sweet; she'd believed him though, and it had definitely struck a cord. But saying it and doing it were two completely different things…yet here he was, ready to give up his team, his daily routine, and a huge part of his life for her.

"You don't have to do that."

"If it comes down to it," he began, eyes dragging over her body, taking in her presence and thinking about how it felt to have her here, to have her in his life… "Then yeah, I do have to."

She smiled sadly and urged him down to her so their foreheads met, hers tilted to avoid the gash over her left eye. Moving slightly, she ended the skin-to-skin contact of their foreheads pressed together, replacing it with the feel of her lips brushing against his. Ignoring the notion of a "break," their lips moved in a gentle press and slide, becoming reacquainted after their short but agonizing time apart.

She tasted sweet, like Calleigh and new beginnings, and he was relishing the feel of her lips on his. His hands flitted from her side, to her face, and into her hair as though he couldn't quite touch enough of her. He tore his lips from hers as soon as the thought flooded his mind and in a breathless request he muttered, "Stay with me." He trailed a hand gently over the bruises on her arm and hand, adding, "Let me take care of you now."

"Okay," she whispered, eyes sparkling as she smiled a little.

Relieved, he ran his hands up and down her sides, pressed a lingering kiss to her lips, and left to retrieve a button-up shirt and boxers for her to change into. She didn't mind him staying, but he either wanted to preserve her modesty considering they'd been a little rocky lately or he didn't trust himself with the temptation (sex was high on the post-op no no list), so he closed the bathroom door behind him.

Her pants were easy to remove. With her good hand she popped the button loose, slid the zipper down, and pulled down on each side a little until the material pooled at her feet. She managed to slide the boxers on until they settled loosely at her hips. Her tank top, however, proved to be difficult. No matter how she tried, every time she bent her right arm to get the top off, pain shot through her hand or elbow and spread throughout her arm. She hated to be needy and didn't want to put him in an awkward position, but this was proving to be impossible.

"Eric?" she finally called out, opening the door and peeking around the corner to find him in bed. She sighed, biting her lip. "I can't get my shirt off…"

"Can you lift your arms up?" he asked, grasping the hem of her shirt.

"Yeah, I just can't bend," she said sheepishly as he peeled the tank top over her head. She was left in a black bra and his boxers until he helped her slide the shirt over her arms. She immediately went to work on the buttons, but it hurt to use her right hand and sliding buttons through while trying to hold the fabric together all with a single hand was a little difficult.

"Here," he offered, taking the fabric in his hands and picking up where she left off. He had unbuttoned this shirt from her body many, many times before, but putting it _on _was a new experience; he preferred the former.

Calleigh smiled, seeming to be thinking something similar, which could've made getting into bed with him awkward but it wasn't at all. She didn't know where they were headed, but she loved him and after an emotional, physically demanding day like today she just wanted to be with him. She needed to feel his body against hers, to know that he was real and here and okay.

He sat back against the pillows, pulling her against his side so she could rest her head on his shoulder. She caught sight of his scars again and sighed, running her fingertips along the back of his head, stopping just short of the newer scar.

"Does it still hurt?" she asked, sighing. He had been through so much, and the second time around she'd had to make all his decisions for him. The ordeal was still too fresh in her mind and made anxiety and worry coil in her chest.

"Not there," he answered, pulling her closer. "I get headaches though. The doctor said they should go away with time."

Their legs intertwined as she slid a leg between his, bringing their bodies that much closer.

"It's different this time," he admitted, opening up a little. "I keep looking for things in the wrong places." She pulled away to look at him concernedly, her brows furrowed, but he shook his head amusedly. "I look for the sugar in a canister by the stove…and it's not there. I have this moment of panic, thinking something's wrong, that this is happening again and I'm not remembering correctly…and then I realize that I'm remembering your house. I'm just so used to staying with you."

She smiled, settling in again in the warm pocket his body created at his side. "Maybe you'll be back there soon."

"Maybe," he agreed, smiling. He took her right hand in his delicately, carefully examining the bruising. "Tell me about today?" he requested, needing to know. He wanted the details and, more importantly, he needed to make sure that she was truly okay.

Calleigh nodded softly, laying her head on his shoulder and succumbing to his gentle caresses on her arm. After a deep breath, she began to recall her day, surprised by the ease with which such difficult words fell from her lips.

But it was always easy with him. She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. She didn't know how long it would take before the memory of him swerving away in a car she'd just shot at would stop flashing through her mind, bringing with it a tight ball of anxiety that settled in her chest. But she knew that they would work through it together like they always did.

Tomorrow didn't matter at the moment anyway. For now she felt comforted, safe, and loved. And all that mattered was right here, right now.


End file.
